38
VICTORIA
September 8
I wake at 6 a.m. to a silent campground.
My heart is heavy as I scroll through the comments on my blog post, which are now in the dozens. They’re sympathetic to my absence, some encouraging and empowering. Some want the gritty details of why I left. Others express their happiness at my return. One reader wants to know if my focus is going to be on my blog or television.
My finger pauses on the reply button.
I can’t reveal my plan to the world yet, not until I break it to Tara that I no longer want to be in the running for the next gig, that I’ve reached the end of this chapter.
I realized: uncertainty can’t be an excuse to make a bad decision. I did this project because it was movement somewhere, and it saved me from myself. It kept me from being stagnant, from wallowing in what could have been. It brought me to wonderful people. To Joel.
But the road for this project ends here. I couldn’t live with myself if I gunned for this job out of pride, out of competitiveness and the desire for clout. If I fought to be in front of the world when all I want to be is on the computer screen or page.
After putting my laptop away, I roll up my sleeping bag and am changing into my clothes for the day when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
It’s from Tara: You up? I need to speak to you.
It sounds serious, so I type back quickly. I’m up, packing. I need to speak to you, too.
On my way.
I stuff the backpack with my things, still amazed that I can fit everything important to me in such a small amount of space. Then again, last night, this three-person tent held so much more than I could have expected. Hope. Potential. Joel has expressed his limits, but when he made love to me last night, I felt everything unsaid. And it has to be enough.
Tent now empty, I drag my bag outside, to the canopy area. Because of the dirt, I kept my shoes outside, covered with a towel. When I pull the towel off, I notice my shoes are sitting on a red Converse shoebox. A shoebox that doesn’t belong to me.
My breath hitches. The only other person near my tent since I walked into it last night was Joel.
I pick the box up, shake it for good measure. Things rattle and move. Okay—not shoes. I’m about to open it when Tara walks up. She’s in sweats, hair disheveled. Her forehead is folded in worry.
“What’s wrong?”
Her eyelids flutter closed. She shakes her head, as if she already knows what I’m going to say. “Victoria, you go first. Dear God, put me out of my misery.”
“Um . . . okay?”
“Just say it. Just. Say. It.”
I blow out a breath. Okay, it’s now or never. “I-I don’t want to be considered for the next gig. I appreciate this opportunity, but I’ve got to get back to my blog and my business. I will speak to Olivia as soon as possible. I’ll leave it up to you if you still want me to cohost this last festival, in which case you’ll be getting my best.” I smile meekly. “Besides, we all know it was Joel who stole the show. You don’t need me there.”
Tara’s head lolls forward as in resignation. “I knew it.” Her hand shoots out, holding a piece of paper. “Are you both in fucking cahoots or something?”
I take the note. I read the first line of what looks like an official letter:
To Tara Sullivan,
Thank you for the opportunity to cohost West Coast BBQ, but in light of the competition with my cohost, I respectfully decline to participate in the competition and, therefore, won’t be attending the final segment—”
“What? What?” Equal parts shock and realization run through me. My eyes shoot to the box in my arms.
“Him, then you? You guys can’t do this to me. I need one of you to be there. Dammit.” Tara begins to pace, muttering to herself.
I tear open the box. Inside are DVDs: The Matrix, Three Kings, Pulp Fiction, Titanic, Forrest Gump, and The Shawshank Redemption. Movies we talked about on our road trip. Movies he and I tore apart and discussed; they brought us together. I grin, feeling emotion rise to my chest, causing my neck to warm.
But there’s more. Below the movies is a note:
Dear Victoria,
I hate letters.
In the last day, I wrote two: this one and the one that Tara will soon read.
I’m sorry, sweet Victoria. I’m sorry, but I won’t be there today. I thought I could go through with the last day of the segment, to see this competition through. I thought I wanted this job. The fact that I didn’t get it at first drove me to feel like I needed it. But I don’t want it like this. Not over you, or through you. Nor do I want to hold you back.
Remember our talk about fate and choice? I take back what I said. Fate brought me to you every time, but now I have to make a choice. You asked if I wanted a happily ever after one day, and yes, Victoria, I do.
So I choose the memory and the possibility of us. I choose the red pill and to follow what’s fucking scaring me. I’m charging forward, and I hope that it leads me back to you.
Joel
“Is he not here?” Panic rushes through me and I circle my tent, peering down the line of plots, where the rest of the crew is set up. His tent is no longer there. “Dammit.”
Tara whines behind me. “We have to be in San Diego in two hours to set up and meet the rest of the crew. I can’t have zero hosts. One, I can try to finagle, but not two. You cannot run out on me, Victoria. I will lose my job.”
“Then there’s no time to lose. I have to find him.” I start to pull my tent stakes out of the ground, then change my mind. There’s a faster way to get to him. “Can you handle the tents? I’ll take the RV.”
“No, you can’t go!”
“I have to. Do what you can to stall. Wait for my call. And I’ll see you in San Diego.”